And all of a
sudden he cries out, 'Ther's the brood of dark My Hen, scratchin' up the
sweet peas. Upon them with the lance!' And he lets go the pump-handle,
and it flies up and hits the shelf and knocks off two plates and a cup,
and Bubble, he's off with the mop-handle, chasin' the old black hen and
makin' believe run her through, till she e'enamost died of fright. Well,
there, it give me a turn; it reelly did!" She paused rather sadly,
seeing that her hearers were both overcome with laughter.
"I--I am very sorry, Mrs. Chirk, that the plates were broken," said
Hilda; "but it must have been extremely funny. Poor old hen! she must
have been frightened, certainly. Do you know," she added, "I think
Bubble is a _remarkably_ bright boy. I am very sure that he will make a
name for himself, if only he can have proper training."
"Presume likely!" said Mrs. Chirk, with melancholy satisfaction. "His
father was a _real_ smart man. There warn't no better hayin' hand in the
county than Loammi Chirk. And I'm in hopes Zerubbabel will do as well,
for he has a good friend in Farmer Hartley; no boy couldn't have a
better."
Eminence in the profession of "haying" was not precisely what Hilda had
meant; but she said nothing.
"And my poor girl here," Mrs. Chirk continued after a pause, "she sets
in her cheer hay-times and other times. You've heard of her misfortune,
Miss Graham?"
Pink interposed quickly with a little laugh, though her brows contracted
slightly, as if with pain.
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